Espirt de Corps
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: A collection of separate short stories involving Reepicheep and Trufflehunter in which they go about grievances and come to understand the meaning of phrase: "espirt de corps" All of these stories are from Reepicheep's POV. T: Suggestive Themes
1. Conscientia mille testes

**Espirt de Corps**

A/N: Previously titled _Short Stories of Love_

All of these (relatively) short stories are from Reepicheep's POV and in all of them he is talking to Trufflehunter.

* * *

**I | _Conscientia_**_** mille testes**_

Life is a beautiful chaste affair.

You said this to me when you lunged that sword in my gut. Do you remember what you said afterwards?

Of course you do. You just said it, a simple two word question.

"Isn't it?"

Isn't life a beautiful chaste affair. I believe full heartedly that it is indeed a chaste affair.

No, on second thought it isn't. It isn't a chaste affair. You only perceive it to be, life, being this beautiful oxymoron that you poetically conjured. A chaste affair. There is nothing chaste about it!

I take it that's why I'm no longer present in the world now. Because you thought in me saying that life was a ravishing event made me unfit to breathe. So you killed me. For what end, and be precise in your explanation, did you do it for? For what purpose did you find my death so appropriate? If you ask me I believe it was for your sanity. In my living I must have drove you mad out the window. Especially when I began visiting your house frequently. In fact it was so frequent that your children began calling me "Uncle"- as if the phrase were serious bounding instead of an innocent title. I must have destroyed your heart when I kissed her, your wife. I can assure you that it was not out of passionate spite but of comfort and embrace. I remember the words she said to me when the whole ordeal was over.

"You have found the key to my relationship with my husband, I suggest you give it to him."

As your friend my trust can be broken but as a member of society my record can be validated. I have never broken a vow, a pact, or a seal. I have always been a Chief Abettor for you and even in death I shall extend the service.

To say that I caused your grief is ludicrous. Moments earlier my ears heard the words:

"You started the fire that burned my children to ash. I have lost all respect for you."

The fire you speak of was arson dear sir and I am not the arsonist. Look to your body and you'll see small inflictions- old wounds from months ago, due to pain that was felt years ago.

You castigate me for innocent behavior. You denounced your duty and performed the devil well. You wished to have the happiness of a woman who did not love you and you wished to have the respect of children who were never there . When I came in to see her well, you cast me straight down into hell. Forgive me of the verse but it is true dear friend. You casted me out and forgive me again, but have sought sweet revenge.

So ask me again, is life is a beautiful chaste affair?

Between whom? Between you and your conscious? The agreeable voice in your head that says that I slaughtered your world and devoured it. You listen to that out of all things? Why not listen to the words of an intellectual, which were my last words to you anyway, and forgive me of verse again, but I pray you use them well for it is the only phrase in the world that rings true in life, death, and all well planned events:

Conscientia mille testes.


	2. in hoc signo vinces

**II | _In hoc signo vinces_**

I received your letter this morning.

Upon reading it, I discovered two senses as I sat in an upholstered chair in a cleaning procrastinator's home. First grief, then serenity. They happened so simultaneously that if you were here, I might appear as if I were in need of medical assistance.

Outside my window, it is raining, it's steady but not too ambitious. Like a child who's so eager to get started with adult responsibility, I tell it: 'Wait! Stay right here for a moment. You're prefect just like this.'

Apparently a fly managed to enter from somewhere, he's sitting on my windowsill, as if he's waiting to hear me recite a poem of yours. I know you were fond of it, poetry. You called it 'the music of love, the voice of a dreamer, and the words of someone who cares'.

Poetry. You loved it so.

I smile, but then I come to the recollection that you hate rain. You find it repulsive and depressing, you said once about it, 'It brings about the worst mood in me because of what happened.'

What happened dear sir is life. You cannot control your present condition. You were tested, you were deemed 'insane' and the doctor who prescribed you this insanity pill also advised me to 'stay clear of rain' as if that were a symptom of your murderous psychopathy.

Rain. You always hated it. You screamed at it once, promulgating that was her crying not out of pain from missing or loving you, but that she was crying out of spite. I don't think you understand how the weather works. If she were crying in spite, then a flood would've occurred and you would've have been dead years ago.

Still, it doesn't change anything.

Just because you hate rain and I miss you terribly does not change the fact that it is still raining.

That fly on the windowsill exits, like a player on the boards, finishing his monologue, ending the play that will propel his career. Can you imagine that? A fly being an actor? Sounds ludicrous. Then again, a lot of things are.

Why you wrote me a letter dating it today when you clearly wrote it a week ago, that was ludicrous.

The conversation of it between me and the messenger who delivered it was brief. I said who the letter was from and he stated your name in an apologetic, sympathetic way, apparently he thought I knew.

In a strange sort of way I did, for why would you send a messenger in the rain to deliver a letter to me when you hate rain that much.

_By the time you read this,_

A clichéd statement commonly related to hopelessness.

_I will be dead._

The four word sentence that grabbed my attention. I scanned toward the bottom to see if it was sincere instead of some cruel sadistic joke.. When I saw your name and the pact we made when ending every letter and conversation, I knew it was legitimate

"In hoc signo vinces."

Under this sign of the cross, thou shall conquer.

I came in and sat down after that. I read the transcript over and over memorizing every last detail, every punctuation, every beat. It was a beautiful last confession and it was a beautiful will. If you wish me to have the things requested that I take, then I will take them in good stride and good faith knowing that at least your mother and your guilty conscious won't be bothering you anymore.

I weep deeply for you because I know that you made a grave mistake but I won't chastise it any further- you stood by it and although I don't agree with your justification I can at least know that it is raining outside and no matter what, you'll always hate it.

Rain, it's steady but not too ambitious. The opposite of you, you were always ambitious. Remember the time when we were children and I was visiting your place when it began to storm? You were so frightened! I remember pulling you out into the thick of it saying, 'It's only rain!' We of course rushed back inside once the lighting hit but it was a comical relief from the dramatics of thespian storm. Although we were out there for a brief moment, I saw your fear wipe away. I don't know if was because I was there or you simply had an epiphany but whatever the case there was a point where you understood that the water that falls from the sky is simply that. Water. Most of the time it doesn't get to horrific devastating levels, but when it does, I'll know who to call. Only then will your phobia have some use. Until then, understand that it is irrational. It is only rain.

I doubt I will fully be able to say goodbye to you, for it can easily be expressed that I loved you. Not in a romantic or sentimental way but were a band of brothers. You, Tilden, and Me. Do you remember him much? He died just before you mother, I was so ate over it I couldn't breathe for about an hour. I remember you came over and told me to eat something and then afterwards rest, for 'napping is a good way to dream away grief' you said.

I guess you're taking your own advice then.

I won't pest you any further. Oh, by the way, it stopped raining.


End file.
